


Promises to Keep

by AliceBee



Category: Les Misérables (TV 2018)
Genre: BDSM, Caning, Canon Divergence, Cock & Ball Torture, Collars, D/s, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Gags, Hand Jobs, M/M, Master/Slave, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Shaving, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 22:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20015797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceBee/pseuds/AliceBee
Summary: Promise: pledge, swear, vowTo declare solemnly that one will follow a particular course of action, come what may.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwelveLeagues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/gifts).



**Montreuil-sur-Mer, September 1820**

As his fellow council members began to arrive, Madeleine fixed a smile for the sake of appearance and quickly agreed to Javert’s request. The Inspector’s sudden arrival, very nearly _demanding_ a meeting just as Valjean was about to chair a council session was clearly designed to rattle him.

“A little after four o’clock, Inspector,” Madeleine said, nodding to Robert and Vincent as they took their places at the table.

“Four o’clock it is,” said Javert. “In the Mayor’s office?”

“Yes,” said Madeleine, sharply, tension edging into his voice as the room began to fill.

Javert inclined his head at that, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. Madeleine tried to encourage Javert from the chamber, but the Inspector was determined to take a few extra moments. He was looking over the group of councilmen, something calculating and cruel in his manner, before his eyes came to rest upon Madeleine.

“Until four o’clock then,” Javert said and with a brief nod, he was gone.

Madeleine released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He pushed thoughts of Javert to one side as best as he could as he took his seat at the head of the table and convened the meeting.

He had only been in his office a short time when there was a knock at the door. Madeleine knew it would be Javert, even though he was almost twenty minutes early.

“Come in,” he said, sounding calm although he was nauseous with apprehension.

“I shan’t take up much of your time… M. le Maire,” Javert said, choosing to stand at Madeleine’s desk rather than take the seat that was offered. “I know how busy you are, what with your business and the Mayorship and your _philanthropy_.”

“What is it that I can do for you, Inspector?” Madeleine asked, ignoring Javert’s condescension, making sure he kept his own tone measured.

Javert’s games were difficult enough to suffer at the best of times, let alone after a busy council meeting, but there was something about his manner today that had put Madeleine’s nerves on a knife-edge. He was more arrogant and more disdainful than usual and there was an added gleam in his eye that was deeply unsettling.

The Inspector took out a document from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to Madeleine. The paper was folded into thirds and as he opened the first fold, Madeleine’s hands began to shake minutely as he read the title on the page.

It was an arrest warrant.

Madeleine’s palms were beginning to sweat and he could feel Javert’s eyes burning into him. He took a moment and took up his courage and then he unfolded the rest of the document.

His blood ran cold as he read the name on the warrant. It had not yet been signed off by a magistrate, however all other parts of the document were in order.

Madeleine’s eyes darted up from the paper and they were met with Javert’s implacable gaze. With his heart slamming in his chest, he looked back to the warrant and read again and again the name that was inscribed there. It was as if the world had been ripped sideways, everything was spinning, everything was in motion. There was shock and panic and fear and guilt, yet mixed in with all of that there was a spark of hope, one he had long since thought extinguished.

Javert could ask anything of him now, anything, and the bastard knew it.

Madeleine checked himself harshly. Those kinds of thoughts would do him no favours, that kind of anger would do him no good. He was caught now, by Javert’s diligence, by the fault of another’s crimes and by blood.

All pretence fell away. It was pointless now. The menacing dance Javert had engaged him in was over. That horrendous moment, when he had watched in disbelief and horror as _Javert_ had strode into his factory, was just months ago. Javert had stuck the knife in that day and today was the day he had decided to twist it.

“Am I to suppose,” Valjean said, when he was eventually able to speak, “that my confession would stay your hand?”

Javert’s smirk spread into a smile which began to show teeth. “I had thought so, until quite recently.” He spoke slowly, with chilling self-assurance.

Valjean closed his eyes and steeled himself. “What is it that you want?”

“You may have a week to put your affairs in order. Then I expect you to present yourself at this address at 6 am on Saturday morning.” Javert passed a small piece of paper to Valjean. “You will have told no one of this meeting, only that you are going away for some time. Personal reasons or on business, I don’t care what you tell them, as long as they believe it.”

Valjean took the paper. At a glance he could see it showed a residential address on the outskirts of town.

“And then?” he asked.

“And then you will surrender and you will submit yourself to me.”

Javert’s words hit him like a tidal wave. They lifted him off his feet and knocked the breath out of him. They drew him up high, far above himself, only to then slam him down and drag him under, deep into the swirling darkness and the squeezing, crushing pressure.

His hands were shaking visibly now. To still them, he clasped them tightly together, as if in desperate prayer. He tried to calm himself, but his heart was like a wild, fluttering bird; one that had been trapped, confined and caged.

“Well?” said Javert, jabbing at his silence.

“I believe you know my answer,” Valjean said, his voice low and unsteady.

“I believe I do.”

Valjean lifted his head. “Do I have any other assurance, apart from your word?”

“You do not,” said Javert. “However, you do have my word.”

Valjean nodded and Javert leaned over his desk, tugging on the warrant, pulling it from beneath Valjean’s hands. He lifted them slightly, allowing the paper to be taken.

“Where is she?” Valjean asked, as Javert turned to leave.

“So you can warn her off? I don’t think so. I’ll be watching you this week, if you’re thinking of trying anything.”

“I want to see her. After all this time…” He trailed off, the weight of his guilt and his grief closing his throat.

“If you set foot outside the town walls, the warrant will be issued and she will be arrested. Is that clear?”

“Will you take me, then?” Valjean asked, emboldened by having nothing to lose. “Will you take me to see my sister?”

It had taken months of meticulous work and no little ingenuity. Javert had also called in favours with colleagues and had put himself into the debt of others. He had run this ‘investigation’ in parallel with his own daily duties and alongside his search for Valjean. That all three threads of his life had come together so perfectly, within a few months of each other, was something he chose to believe was divine providence.

When Valjean had asked to see his sister, Javert’s immediate thought was to say no. But when he considered the request further, he saw it could hold a great advantage to him. His sister could just be a name Javert had written on a piece of paper. Would that be enough to hold Valjean, given what lay ahead? Letting him see with his own eyes that she had been found and was compromised would close the circle around Valjean completely.

And so, when Valjean had presented himself to Javert at 6 am on Saturday morning, a carriage was waiting.

Their journey to Abbeville was uneventful. Valjean had sat in silence for the whole of the carriage ride, gazing mournfully out of the window. Javert had enjoyed looking at him, seeing all those airs and graces stripped away, watching the reality of what he had agreed to sink into his very bones. After all those years, all those long years, it was delicious to see him caught and cowed. After today, Valjean had little idea of what lay ahead for him and Javert took great delight in the torment that was clearly causing him.

Before they had left Montreuil, Javert had cuffed his hands. He didn’t want to take any chances. He had a good hold over him, but it wouldn’t do to be complacent. There was no telling what he might do when he saw her. He had allowed him to drape his top coat over the handcuffs, though. Javert didn’t need questioning eyes or curious onlookers and he supposed neither did Valjean. This was, after all, a private matter.

The carriage drew to a halt on the edge of the town square. Javert got out and he steadied Valjean as he stepped down, his shackled hands hidden beneath his coat. They walked the short distance into the market, Javert’s hand on Valjean’s arm. The place was packed with people and stalls, but Javert knew where to look. He led him a little further into the crowd and then pointed across the square.

The family resemblance was clear. Dark eyes, dark waves of hair and she was tall, with the same wide, sensual mouth… but their features were not the only thing they shared. Their criminal heritage was as common to them as the colour of their eyes or the shape of their mouths.

“Prostitution, blackmail, theft,” Javert listed, as Valjean stared across the market square.

Valjean’s sister was in her usual place, at the entrance to an alleyway off the main square. It was a good pitch for a whore. There was lots of passing trade, plenty of merchants with a day’s takings burning a hole in their pockets and she had ready access to the seclusion of the alley. 

Valjean took a step towards her, but Javert pulled him back.

“This is close enough.”

He could see the distress in Valjean’s eyes and he felt his pulse quicken in response.

“Please, Javert,” he said. “Let me talk to her.”

“You asked to see your sister. You’ve seen her.”

Valjean’s head dropped. “Javert,” he said, quietly. “Have pity.”

“My pity doesn’t extend to convicts, criminals or whores. You should count yourself very lucky you are here at all.”

He tightened his grip on Valjean’s arm and drew him back towards their carriage. Valjean came without a struggle, but Javert could tell he was on the brink of resisting. He could feel the tension in the muscles of the man’s arm. He marched him quickly across the cobbles.

“Promise me she won’t be arrested,” Valjean said.

Javert opened the carriage door and bundled him inside.

“As long as you honour our agreement,” said Javert, taking the seat opposite, “she won’t have any trouble.”

“Thank you,” said Valjean, and he sounded as though he meant it.

Javert was taken aback by the sincerity in his words. After a moment, he nodded to him and then he knocked on the roof of the carriage.

As they pulled away, Javert once again found himself regarding Valjean, though this time it was with curiosity rather than triumph. 

**Paris, April 1826**

Rivette was fussing nervously before the mirror. He had been changing his waistcoat and then swapping his cravat, then changing them back for more than half an hour. Time was ticking on and lateness was not an option. He gave a small groan of disappointment. Nothing looked right, nothing felt right. He gave up. He was running out of time. He picked up the brush and smoothed his already smooth hair and then he ran his fingers over his moustache, patting it down, worried because it needed a trim. So did his hair, now he thought of it. What would his father have said? What would _Javert_ say? Rivette chided himself, as it was far too late to do anything about it now.

The invitation to dinner at his Inspector’s residence had been a wonderful yet scary surprise and if he was honest, he’d been in a flap about it all day. Javert’s almost casual invitation had been so unexpected and so desperately wanted, Rivette wasn’t sure he’d made any sense when he’d gratefully accepted the gesture. He’d done his best to keep his mind on his work and even though he said so himself, he thought he had done a pretty good job of it. He was, however, in a low grade panic about tonight. If only Javert had given him a little more warning. Then again, more warning would have meant more time to worry about it, so maybe it was for the best.

Rivette gave himself a hard stare in the mirror. “Pull yourself together, man,” he muttered.

He had ordered himself a carriage to take him to Javert’s home. For such a special occasion, he was happy to pay a little for the luxury.

The address was in a nice part of town, not the best, but certainly nicer than anywhere Rivette had ever been to dine. An Inspector’s salary must be higher than Rivette had imagined, as he could see Javert was waiting at a tall pair of doors set in a high wall. He alighted and was welcomed in through the doors. The small house, for it was a house, was set back from the street, enclosed in its walls and surrounded by a tiny formal garden.

“This is lovely, sir,” said Rivette, genuinely impressed. “Really lovely.”

“It suits my needs,” was his Inspector's dry reply.

As they approached the house, the door opened and a tall, dark-haired man wordlessly allowed them in. First a very nice house, now a servant. Rivette was confused by the extravagance. Did Javert have family money? He knew little of his Inspector’s past, but Rivette was almost certain he did not.

“You… can afford a porter?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” Javert replied.

Perhaps he had hired the man for the night. Rivette hoped so, as that would mean his Inspector was also treating the evening as something special.

The porter took his top coat and hat and then showed them into the dining room. Again, it was small but decently appointed. They were seated opposite each other, across a small, square table. It had been formally set and the candle- and firelight complemented the scene, the oil lamps having been turned down to a soft glow. The glassware shone and the cutlery glistened. The wine was poured and it was most certainly better than anything Rivette had tasted outside of a wedding celebration.

The porter served the first course, a clarified broth which looked unpromising but which was wonderfully seasoned with spice and salt. 

“This is delicious, sir,” Rivette said. “Quite the tastiest thing I have had in a while.”

Javert arched an eyebrow at his effusive praise and glanced towards his porter.

“I have found he can turn his hand to most things, given the right encouragement.”

It stuck Rivette as an odd thing to say, but the porter didn’t react to the comment. He stood at the edge of the room, impassive until he was required to clear the course from the table.

After dinner, they retired to the study. The food had been marvellous, the wine excellent and the company all he could have hoped for. The porter joined them momentarily, to serve brandy on a silver platter. He set the tray down on the small table, two large glasses and a decanter of dark liquid, then the man left. Javert poured generous measures and he passed a glass to Rivette. He took it and swirled the brandy, as he’d seen his father do on those rare special occasions. 

“Take a seat,” Javert said, gesturing to the small sofa.

Rivette sat down and was thrilled when Javert chose to sit next to him, rather than taking the armchair opposite. The firelight caught in Javert’s eyes and they were as dark and rich and heady as the brandy in their glasses. Rivette was drunk, on both the alcohol and the proximity of his host.

“I feel we have an understanding,” said Javert.

“I hope so, sir.”

“We have worked together for several years now,” Javert said. “I wondered if you would do something for me.”

His Inspector put down his glass and placed his hand on Rivette’s knee. Rivette was unable to suppress a shiver of excitement at the touch.

“I should like to take you into my confidence,” Javert continued.

“Of course,” said Rivette, hoping his voice wouldn’t betray his excitement.

“The extortion case is before the court next week and it requires my presence in the neighbouring jurisdiction. I expect I will be away from Paris for a little over a week.”

“Yes, sir.”

Work had been the main topic of conversation over dinner, so it didn’t seem immediately odd for Javert to have brought this up. He was happy to discuss whatever professional matter his Inspector desired. Though the fact that Javert’s hand was still on his knee was proving something of a distraction.

“I can trust you, Rivette, I hope.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Javert took his hand off his knee and snapped his fingers loudly. Within a moment, the porter entered the room.

“Does he remind you of anyone?” Javert asked.

“No, sir.”

Then Rivette looked at the man more closely. Tall, broad and rugged, with dark, wavy hair and a beard that was growing a little unruly. The longer Rivette looked, the more uncertain of his initial answer he became.

“Perhaps it will come to you," said Javert.

“Perhaps,” said Rivette, feeling ever more unbalanced by the evening.

“As I said, I need to take you into my confidence.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your complete discretion is required. I hope you can give me your word on that.”

“Of course you have my word, sir.”

Javert nodded and then turned to address his porter. “Take off your cravat and open the neck of your shirt.”

Rivette saw the smallest shift in the man’s shoulders and to Rivette, the tiny gesture just screamed humiliation. It was deeply strange and Rivette was suddenly feeling rather uncomfortable.

The porter undid his cravat and then unbuttoned his shirt. Rivette’s mouth fell open, as if he was going to speak but no words had formed in his brain. Around the man’s throat was a metal collar. Not the thick roll of iron convicts wore; this was a much finer piece of work. It was a polished band of steel, maybe an inch and a half wide, which fastened at the front with a hasp. It was held in place by a small, sturdy padlock that rested at the hollow of the man’s throat.

Rivette was gawping, he knew that, but he couldn’t help it. Of all the things he had imagined happening this evening, Javert revealing to him he had his own personal slave was definitely not one of them.

“You’re dismissed,” Javert said to the porter and the man left the room.

Rivette could tell that Javert was looking to him for his reaction. He couldn’t meet his Inspector’s eyes, not yet. He was still trying to process what he’d just seen so he decided to judiciously study the pattern in the rug instead.

“Has that surprised you?” Javert asked.

“Well, sir, I… you know.” Rivette was holding his brandy glass in both hands, like some sort of feeble shield. Now seemed a good a time as any to take a very large sip, so he did.

“Whilst I am away, I should like you stay here at night.”

“Sir,” said Rivette, his mind spinning.

“Feel free to have him cook your evening meal and prepare your breakfast. He is not allowed out of the house, so you may need to restock some items in the larder. If you do, there are funds in the old cigar box in the bureau. He should not give you any problems. However, he is to be chained in his room whenever you have to leave him alone and whenever you are asleep. On this I must insist.”

Rivette could hardly renege now, having already given his word, but he was very far from comfortable with the situation.

“I understand,” said Rivette, not understanding at all.

“There is something further I would like you to do.”

“Sir?”

“Your father was a barber-surgeon, was he not?”

“He was, sir, yes.” 

“He is in need of a haircut and a shave. I should like for you to smarten him up for when I arrive back.”

Rivette found himself nodding as if this were a perfectly normal request.

“Good,” said Javert. “Good. And should you wish to have your use of him, please do.”

Rivette was staggered by the casual nature of the offer, he absolutely felt his mind lurch and his thoughts desert him. It was too much. This whole evening was too, too much. He was stumbling around for a response, fogged with alcohol, completely and utterly thrown.

“I don’t know what to say,” Rivette eventually mumbled, his face flushed.

Javert took the brandy glass from Rivette’s fingers, leaned closer and whispered, “You don’t need to say anything.”

And then Javert was kissing him. He was strong and forceful and Rivette’s shock dissolved into desire beneath the press of Javert’s body. Javert’s lips were soft but he was kissing him hard. Rivette opened his mouth and Javert’s tongue was immediately inside, probing the space, taking possession. Javert pushed him back on the sofa and helplessly, hopelessly, Rivette was getting hard. He might have whimpered when Javert ran his hand up the inside of his thigh.

“Do you like that?” Javert said into his ear, his hand working at the erection through the fabric of Rivette’s best trousers.

“Oh, sir,” he gasped, lifting his hips, panting into Javert’s kiss. “Oh. Oh God.”

Javert hand was rubbing harder, then Rivette felt the buttons pop undone and Javert’s firm grip closed around his shaft. His long, hard pulls had Rivette moaning and rocking his hips. When Javert began to rub his thumb over the end of his cock, Rivette lost himself completely.

“Like that,” he gasped, thrusting into Javert’s fist. “Oh, sir. Oh God, like that.”

Javert had matched the rhythm of his hand to Rivette’s hips, and Rivette couldn’t hold back any more. He came to a shuddering, gasping climax, his seed spilling over Javert’s hand, over his own shirt, onto his bared belly.

Rivette was quivering, he was spent, he was amazed.

He sank back onto the sofa as Javert leaned over him and kissed him deeply. Whilst he did so, he was wiping his hand on the tails of Rivette’s shirt. Javert then ran his other hand through Rivette’s tangled hair, kissed him one final time and stood up. The Inspector adjusted his clothes; he pulled at his shirt, tugged his tunic straight and resettled his cravat. Within seconds, he looked as crisp and neat as ever, as though nothing had happened. Rivette, on the other hand, was still lying dishevelled on the sofa, hanging out of his breeches. He quickly sat up and following the lead of his superior, he tidied himself away, tucked in his shirt and tried his very best to look like he'd not been manually pleasured to the point of ejaculation by his boss.

“You’re a good man, Rivette,” Javert said. “I don’t say that often enough.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, his mind and body reeling. “Thank you.”

Javert drained his brandy. “If you can meet me here, Sunday afternoon, shall we say 4 pm?”

Rivette got to his feet. “Certainly, sir.”

“Very good, Rivette. I will bid you a good evening.”

Javert held out his hand and Rivette shook it, though it seemed so strangely formal, given what Javert had just done with that very hand. It was a deeply odd way to end such an intimate and bizarre night.

As Javert showed him out, Rivette found himself looking for the porter, but the man was nowhere to be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

Rivette arrived early to Javert’s house for what he had been calling in his head ‘the hand-over’.

“Rivette,” Javert greeted him, standing on the street outside the garden walls.

“Good afternoon to you, sir,” said Rivette, nodding to his Inspector.

The porter didn’t admit them this time, Javert took Rivette’s coat and bag and stowed them just inside the front door.

“I usually bring him down around six to prepare and serve my evening meal. I suggest you keep to the same schedule.”

Javert handed him a bunch of keys.

“My spare set, keep them safe. This is for the street door, this the front door, this the back. This is for his collar, this is for the bureau. This is for the set of handcuffs you will find in the bureau, should you need them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Javert showed him into the scullery.

“The knives and cleavers all have their place on the wall. You can see at an instant if any are missing, but there have never been any problems. The larder is well stocked and the grocer’s boy and butcher’s boy deliver early Monday and Wednesday. The fishmonger’s lad delivers Friday. Should you need to replenish anything, as I mentioned there is money in the bureau.”

Javert showed him upstairs. He pointed to the room on the left, at the end of the hallway.

“That is my room. You should have no cause to enter.”

“No, sir, of course not.”

“This is the linen store, this is his room. Your room is at the far end of the landing.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“He knows how to run the house, he shouldn’t need any instruction, but should you feel anything is not up to your expectations, make sure he knows it.”

“I will, sir.”

They went back down stairs.

“You have seen the study and the dining room, feel free to use them as you see fit.”

“Thank you,” said Rivette, as nervous of the task ahead of him as he’d been on his first day in uniform.

“I don’t think there is anything else.”

Javert’s carriage arrived a little before five o’clock. Rivette helped him out with his bags and waved him off before he headed back into the house. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, gathering himself.

It was getting darker, so he lit a candle and then he trotted up the stairs. He knocked on the door of the porter’s room. There was no answer, so he knocked again.

“Erm… can I come in? It’s Rivette.”

There was some sound from the other side of the door, some shuffling and something rattling, but no answer.

“I’m going to come in,” he said and he slowly opened the door.

The man didn’t have a bed, there was a mattress on the floor which he was kneeling next to, his head slightly bowed. The collar around his neck now had a length of chain attached to it, the other end of which was secured to a metal plate that was bolted into the wall. The one small window had no drapes or shutters, it had merely had its glass whitewashed over. Shadows shifted against the walls as Rivette moved his candle for a better look around the chamber. Other than a washstand with jug and bowl, a chamber pot and a chest of drawers, there was nothing in the room.

Rivette knew he was staring again, but he couldn’t help it. The situation was so very strange. He knew he needed to say something.

“The Inspector has probably told you, he’s away for a few days and… well, he’s asked me to supervise you, I suppose.”

The man glanced up at him and nodded.

“I’m not exactly sure what to do. What do you normally do?”

His reply was a shrug.

“I don’t really understand… all this. I mean, what’s going on?” asked Rivette.

The man shrugged again.

“Can you not speak?” asked Rivette.

The man looked up at him, his eyes wide and dark. He shook his head and Rivette felt awful; the man was a mute and here he was, wittering away at him.

“Right,” said Rivette. “Wait there.”

The porter squinted at him.

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to… you know. Hang on.”

He went downstairs to the bureau and brought the man paper, quill and ink and he set them down in front of him.

The man looked at him with a very strange expression on his face. Then he looked back down at the floor and swallowed hard, causing the steel lock at his throat to rise and fall. 

“You are able to write?” Rivette asked, afraid he’d made another error.

The man nodded and picked up the quill, but before he took up the ink, he ran the feather gently between his fingers. Rivette was astonished to see tears welling in the man’s eyes.

“What’s the matter?” asked Rivette. He’d never seen such a reaction.

The man blinked away his tears, hesitated a long while, then began to write.

_He does not allow me to speak._

“Oh,” said Rivette. He was at a loss as to what to say to that. “So… you can speak, but you’re not allowed to?”

He nodded.

“Well, I’m sure it would be alright for now.”

The man looked at him with scepticism and shook his head.

_If he found out I would be punished._

“Surely not,” said Rivette, struggling to incorporate this latest strangeness into his head.

The man took up the quill, underlined something and showed it to Rivette with determination.

_ I would be punished._

“I don’t understand any of this. I don’t understand why you’re here… like this.”

_I had to make a choice. I chose this._

Rivette knew his face was betraying him, but he couldn’t help but be utterly baffled. Javert was certainly a charismatic and forceful man, but Rivette could not possibly imagine what circumstance would lead a man to choose to be in this situation. It made little to no sense to Rivette. 

The man held up the papers he had been writing on.

_Will you burn these?_

He pushed the sheets into Rivette’s hands, urging him to put them to the candle’s flame. The man seemed so desperate, his _situation_ was so desperate, Rivette could do nothing but agree to the request.

“I will. I promise I will burn them. But, what should I call you?”

The man looked at him blankly.

“Your name.”

The reply was a shake of the man’s head.

“You must have a name. What does Javert call you?”

There was a pause, then a small shrug and another shake of his head.

“He doesn’t call you anything?”

The man thought for a moment, then he very softly clapped his hands, then he quietly snapped his fingers.

“Is that it?” Rivette asked, appalled.

The man nodded.

“Well, I need to call you something.”

The man lowered his eyes and tilted his head away.

“I’ve always liked Jean-Luc,” Rivette suggested.

He saw the man’s bowed neck stiffen momentarily.

“Would that be alright? If I called you Jean-Luc?”

There was a very, very long pause and then the man nodded.

Over the previous four days they had settled into an awkward routine. Rivette had kept his word and was keeping to the schedule and requirements that Javert had set out. Jean-Luc was no trouble. He silently and efficiently went about his duties. The food was excellent, the house was spotless and Rivette had felt himself if not relax, then feel a little less tense within the strangeness of the whole situation.

On arriving back from the station on the fifth night, Rivette decided he would give Jean-Luc his trim and shave that evening.

As he was getting used to seeing, Jean-Luc was on his knees when he entered his room. Rivette had brought the scissors, shaving brush, soap and razor in a small bag along with a towel and he set them down on the washstand. He took the keys from his pocket and Jean-Luc lifted his chin, allowing Rivette to unlock the chain from his collar. He set the chain on the floor and then slid the padlock out of the collar and put it next to the chain. He could feel Jean-Luc’s eyes on him, dark and wide and wary. When Rivette pulled at the hasp to open the collar, Jean-Luc’s hand grabbed his, strong fingers closing tightly over his wrist. Rivette grimaced in pain and Jean-Luc immediately released him. Rivette saw fear in the man’s eyes, having realised what he had done.

“I want to take it off so I can shave you properly,” he explained, trying to ignore the dull ache in his wrist.

Jean-Luc shook his head, his eyes pained.

“It won’t be for long.”

He seemed unconvinced by Rivette’s assurances.

“Well, how does Javert do it then?”

Jean-Luc dropped his eyes.

“So Javert can take it off?”

He nodded.

“Only Javert?

He nodded again.

Rivette scratched his face in thought. “I am here in his stead. If I say you should take it off, then you should do so.”

Jean-Luc stared at him.

“Take it off,” Rivette said in the most authoritative tone he could muster.

Jean-Luc was looking at him now and that fear was back in his eyes.

“Do as you’re told!” Rivette bellowed.

Jean-Luc flinched in shock at the volume Rivette had achieved. He’d shocked himself, if he was honest, but it did seem to have had the desired effect. The strong fingers that had just moments ago closed around Rivette’s wrist were now pulling the hasp free of the slot. He unlatched the collar, the hinge at the back allowing it to glide open with ease. Jean-Luc lifted the steel band off his neck and held it out to Rivette. His eyes were downcast and his hand was shaking. Rivette took it from him and the weight of it surprised him. It was far heavier than he had expected. He set it down on the floor next to the padlock.

The collar had been a close fit and it had left its mark on Jean-Luc. Where the edges of the collar had sat against his skin, red-raw lines ran around his throat.

“Now, take off your shirt,” Rivette said, a far more gentle tone in his voice.

Jean-Luc obeyed and pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it onto the floor. Rivette picked up the scissors and stepped behind Jean-Luc. He had been about to explain he was going to trim his hair, but all of Rivette’s words died on his lips. Jean-Luc’s back was a tangle of horrendous looking scars, over which a dozen or more livid, red cane marks stood out across his pale, white skin. Rivette stared at them, aghast.

“I… I didn’t realise. I’m sorry,” said Rivette. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Rivette’s casual dismissal of the man’s claims of punishment crowded into the front of Rivette’s mind and he began to feel ill.

Corporal punishment. His job was to catch criminals, the punishments that resulted were someone else’s responsibility and he had always managed to avoid the public birchings and beatings; it was easy to find somewhere else to be and there was always a mountain of paperwork to hide behind. Essentially, he had managed to avert his eyes for the whole of his professional life.

“I’ll get something,” he muttered, stumbling out of the room.

Rivette went into his room and found a pot amongst some items on a shelf. He took off the lid and he could smell immediately that it was of some kind of medicinal ointment. It would have to do.

He took it back into Jean-Luc. Rivette took a small amount of the cream onto his finger tips and brushed it gently over one of the raw lash marks. Jean-Luc hissed in pain, his body shuddering as the ointment bit into his wounds.

“I’m sorry,” said Rivette, his brow furrowing. “Do you want me to stop?”

Jean-Luc shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

The man nodded and he squared his shoulders.

“Alright,” said Rivette, swallowing.

He continued to softly apply the ointment, his fingers delicately running along the raised welts, as the muscles of Jean-Luc’s back tensed beneath his careful touch. Rivette had been initially distracted by the terrible scars, but now, with a more considered gaze, he could see that Jean-Luc’s body was firm and muscular. He was broad and fit and strong and Rivette found himself experiencing a deep pang of envy for his Inspector.

When he had finished, Rivette put the lid back on the pot.

“That’s done now,” he said. “I won’t cut your hair tonight.” The trimmed hair would sick unpleasantly to the ointment. “Just a shave for now.”

He picked up the scissors and gave Jean-Luc’s beard a quick trim over. He then took a dab of water from the jug and whirled up the soap into a foam. He had helped out his father on hundreds of occasions and Rivette had often prepared his father’s customers in this way. He spread the soap over Jean-Luc’s now close-cropped beard, along his jaw, across his chin and down his un-collared throat. 

He wiped his hands on the towel and picked up the straight razor. It had been a while since he’d shaved anyone but himself and Rivette was a little nervous. However, it didn’t do to be nervous with a freshly stropped straight razor in one’s hand, so Rivette calmed himself.

He tilted Jean-Luc’s head back and moved it gently to the left. Using the thumb of his left hand, he pulled the skin of Jean-Luc’s right cheekbone tight, then drew the razor down the side of his face. It slid like silk on the soap and the sharp of the blade. Rivette wiped the razor and drew it down the next section of beard. He tipped Jean-Luc’s head back further and in small, delicate strokes, the blade took the soap and his beard from his top lip.

It was close, careful, intimate work and Rivette was enjoying it. He tilted Jean-Luc’s head to the other side and he again took long, light strokes with the grain of his beard until his cheek was smooth. Jean-Luc let him move his head, tilt his jaw, lift his chin, he allowed him to make all the small adjustments he required. He took the same intense care as he gently drew the razor under the angle of his jaw, Jean-Luc’s pulse a subtle throb beneath Rivette’s blade.

Three short, gentle strokes and he was at Jean-Luc’s bared throat. Three more and the blade was skimming over his Adam’s apple, three more and the razor was gliding finally over the lines left by the collar.

Rivette cleaned the blade one last time. He gently tilted Jean-Luc’s head from one side to the other, checking his work. He was pleased with the result.

As he wiped away the excess soap, Rivette found his hand lingering on the side of Jean-Luc’s face. His fingers were tracing along his jaw, his skin silken smooth from the keen edge of the razor’s blade. His thumb brushed Jean-Luc’s bottom lip and remained there. After a moment, Jean-Luc opened his mouth and took Rivette’s thumb into its warm, wet caress. Rivette’s eyes widened when Jean-Luc reached up and began to undo Rivette’s breeches.

Rivette knew it was wrong. He absolutely should not be taking advantage of this situation but dear God, he wanted that hot, wet tongue on his manhood more that anything.

Jean-Luc took him into his mouth, his head dipping as he slid his tongue up and down Rivette’s aching shaft. Rivette shuddered and moaned as Jean-Luc’s lips were now on his tip, brushing and nuzzling against his foreskin with delicate, dancing, glancing kisses. Then his tongue began to massage the end, before he slipped him whole into his mouth again and Rivette was enveloped in that exquisite heat. He was thrusting into Jean-Luc now, he couldn’t help it, even the sounds the man was making, breathy, choking, gasping sounds, were adding to Rivette’s pleasure. This was so wrong, so very wrong. Rivette buried his hand in Jean-Luc’s hair, curling his fingers in to those long, dark waves. He was going to come and whilst holding the man’s head firmly to his bucking hips, he did so, coming to a juddering climax deep inside Jean-Luc’s throat.

As he wilted, as he arrived back into himself, Rivette found himself stroking Jean-Luc’s hair and murmuring his thanks and gratitude.

Jean-Luc shuffled away on his knees, his head bowed, his eyes averted, shying away from the gentleness of Rivette’s touch.

It seemed very wrong to Rivette that his man could give such pleasure, yet seemed only expect pain in return. Rivette wanted to do something for him. As he buttoned his trousers, Rivette decided he would not collar him for the night. 

“You can put on your shirt, Jean-Luc,” said Rivette.

The man did as he was instructed but when he reached for the collar, Rivette intervened.

“No, leave that for now.”

Jean-Luc looked up at him and Rivette could see he was conflicted, he could see it flickering in his eyes.

“It’s alright, leave it.”

The man’s face was lined in distress. Rivette sighed. With reluctance, he knew what he needed to do.

“I said leave it!” he shouted. “Go and make my dinner.”

Jean-Luc withdrew his hand and nodded, he got to his feet and Rivette heard him hurry down the stairs.

Rivette ran a hand over his face, in trying to be nice, he’d ended up having to yell at the poor man. He began to tidy away the shaving kit into his bag. He folded the towel and set it on top of the kit, tucking in the corners so it fitted neatly. Then his eye was caught by the silver glint of the collar on the floorboards. He bent down and picked up it up. It was cold now and again, he was struck by how much heavier it was than he’d expected. Frowning, he put it on the wash-stand, glad to have it out of his hands.

It had become usual for Rivette to read in the study before dinner, so he took up his book and settled in front of the fire. He was having difficulty focusing on the words, his mind kept straying to the strange man who was preparing his evening meal. Javert had given him permission to ‘use’ him, but Rivette was feeling horribly guilty about doing so.

He was also intrigued. The deeply strange situation had piqued not just his curiosity, but his _policeman’s_ curiosity. He had to be honest. If it had been anyone but Javert, Rivette would have been minded to drag them both into the station for questioning. Who was this man? Why was he here? Where was the money coming from for the house and the food and the wine? They were questions that Rivette was itching to ask. Mulling it all over in his head was only leading him around in circles, but he couldn’t help but fuss and bother at the problem.

A knock at the door interrupted his ruminations. Dinner was ready. Rivette followed Jean-Luc into the dining room and took his usual seat. The first course was served. The soup Jean-Luc had made was that same mouth-watering broth he had had on his evening with Javert. Rivette looked up after tasting the first spoonful, delighted. He tried to catch Jean-Luc’s eye, but the man was staring resolutely at the wall.

“Thank you, Jean-Luc,” said Rivette. “This is most thoughtful. Thank you.”

After dinner, Rivette sat at the table finishing his wine whilst Jean-Luc was in the scullery. Rivette’s belly was full and his head was buzzing pleasantly.

He wanted to say thank you again, so he pushed open the door to the kitchen. The pots, pans, dishes and platters were all cleaned and stacked and stored away and the knives were all hanging neatly in place.

Jean-Luc had been standing facing the window, his eyes closed, his face upturned to the last of the evening sun. He was golden in the light, his palms turned outward, bathing in the warmth. When he heard Rivette enter, he started in surprise and seemed ashamed to have been caught.

Rivette waved that away and was about to say how much he had enjoyed the meal, when he saw what Jean-Luc had laid out for his own dinner. A grey piece of bread, some cheese and an apple. Rivette stared at the plate. He had assumed Jean-Luc would eat what he had prepared, just not at the dining table. It had never occurred to him that Jean-Luc would have such a meagre meal, given the food that was available in the house. Rivette felt sick, waves of guilt making his stomach churn.

“Is that what you’re having?” Rivette's embarrassment caused the words to fall sharply into the silence.

Jean-Luc’s gaze fell to his food. Sheepishly he stepped forward, removed the apple from his plate and placed it back in the fruit bowl.

“No, no!” said Rivette, horrified. “Dear God, that’s not what I meant.”

He took the apple and put it back on Jean-Luc’s plate.

The awkwardness spooled out, Jean-Luc’s discomfort, Rivette’s guilt. It appalled him to think he had been greedily consuming all that wonderful food, whilst this poor man then had only the most basic of rations.

“You will eat the same as me tomorrow,” Rivette said, quietly.

Jean-Luc would not meet his eyes.

“Is that clear?” Rivette said, more firmly.

His reply was an imperceptible nod.

“You may finish your meal,” Rivette said gently, gesturing at the plate. “And add whatever you would like from the pantry.”

When it was time to retire for the night, Rivette followed Jean-Luc into his room. 

“Sit down,” said Rivette.

Jean-Luc sat on the edge of the mattress, his large, dark eyes on Rivette.

Instead of fastening the collar around his neck as the man was expecting, Rivette used the padlock to secure the chain around Jean-Luc’s left ankle. Javert had said he must be chained at night, but he had not specified how.

Jean-Luc was watching him in disbelief.

“I have decided to leave it off for tonight,” said Rivette, nodding towards the collar.

The look of incomprehension Jean-Luc gave him skewered Rivette in the guts. It was clear he was unused to even the simplest act of kindness.

“Jean-Luc, if Javert trusts me to be here, shouldn’t you?”

Rivette crouched in front of him and he wanted to brush away the long strands of hair that had fallen into Jean-Luc’s eyes.

“Shouldn’t you?” Rivette said again.

Jean-Luc turned his face away, his breathing rapid and shallow. It was like dealing with a wounded animal, as if he was trying to disentangle a rabbit from a snare. 

“You shouldn’t feel bad, it’s alright.”

Kneeling now, Rivette had to touch him, he couldn’t hold back. He tilted Jean-Luc’s head toward him, then ran his thumb along his jaw, he ran his hand down the line of his unfettered throat, he ran his fingers under his shirt and traced along his collarbone.

Rivette felt him shiver.

He leaned forward, closed his eyes and kissed him softly. Jean-Luc opened his mouth to him and Rivette’s gentle pressure became something more insistent, his tongue sliding in. Then he was gasping as Jean-Luc pushed forward and began to kiss him back. Rivette ran his hand down Jean-Luc’s chest, down his belly and he began to push his fingers between Jean-Luc’s legs. Rivette could feel his long, heavy shaft begin to stir, but Jean-Luc jolted at the touch and he broke away. He pulled further back, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” said Rivette. “It’s alright. Let me do this for you.”

Jean-Luc was still shaking his head and was now holding out the flat of his hand, his palm pressed into Rivette’s chest.

“What’s wrong?”

Jean-Luc shook his head.

“Please,” said Rivette, stroking unruly curls from Jean-Luc’s forehead. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Jean-Luc switched his gaze to something behind Rivette. He looked over his shoulder and saw the quill, ink and papers were stored on the shelf beside the wash-stand. He gave them to Jean-Luc and he wrote a few words.

_It’s not permitted._

Rivette was confused. “I don’t understand. How could he… How can he stop such a thing?”

_Different ways._

There was shame all over Jean-Luc’s face. Rivette had no idea what, ‘different ways’ might mean, but when he looked at this man there was nothing but pity in his heart. 

“Who are you?” he murmured.

The man looked at him for an endless moment, his dark eyes searching Rivette’s. After an age of indecision, the feather began to scratch across the paper.

_Had you not guessed?_

Rivette shook his head. Again, those dark eyes seemed to peer deep into Rivette’s soul.

_When you named me, you were not teasing me?_

“No,” said Rivette, frowning deeply.

There was a long pause while the tip of the quill pooled ink onto the paper. Then Jean-Luc hurriedly pushed aside the paper and the quill and shuffled further back onto the mattress.

Regarding the man, Rivette was struck, _physically_ struck by a thought so insane it was like a slap in the face, a punch in the stomach and a douche of ice water.

When Javert had asked him if the man reminded him of anyone... Dear God, could it be? Before his shave… The dark beard, the unruly waves of hair, the rugged features, the broad, muscular frame…

“Are you…” Rivette could hardly believe what he was about to say. “Are you Jean Valjean?”

The man’s wide, dark eyes were swamped with a sudden surge of emotion and he could no longer hold Rivette’s gaze. Then a single tear spilled and there was no further confirmation needed.

Rivette bolted from the room.

Was this some sort of joke that was being played on him? The Inspector wasn’t exactly known for his sense of humour, but this was so bizarre and shocking it would seem a more likely explanation than what had been presented to him thus far.

For as long as Rivette had known him, Javert had been obsessed with catching Valjean. If the man in the room was Jean Valjean, why the hell had Javert been chasing after a felon he already had locked up? And why on _earth_ was he not back in prison?

Rivette’s hands were in his hair and he was pacing the landing. His mind was a blur as he barged back into the room, banging the door against the wall.

“What in blazes is going on!” he shouted.

Valjean started to write, but Rivette snatched away the paper.

“This is stupid!” he said. “Tell me. Just tell me.”

Valjean’s liquid eyes were full of suspicion. 

“For God’s sake, man! I won’t tell him you talked to me, I swear.”

The man was clearly weighing the value of that promise. Eventually, after an age, he spoke.

“You’re police,” Valjean said. “You take your orders from him.”

His voice was hardly above a whisper, probably from neglect of use, but Rivette could tell his accent was something provincial, it was soft and flat and warm.

Valjean looked up at him. “Will you turn me in, then?”

Rivette began to feel the pull of duty. His responsibilities were clear; a wanted man had confessed his identity to an officer of the law. The correct course of action lay clearly ahead of him.

“No,” said Rivette, surprised and yet unsurprised to hear himself say that word. “No, I won’t.”

Valjean nodded to himself. “You’ll wait. For him to get back. Then he’ll tell you what to do.”

“No,” said Rivette, feeling immediately defensive. “That is not what I meant.”

Valjean was looking at him and his eyes were soft, there was nothing in them that was jeering or cruel or judgemental. This clearly damaged and exploited man was quite at odds with the violent, aggressive picture Javert had painted over the years.

“You say you don’t understand.” Valjean coughed, his voice cracking. “You understand more than you think.”

Javert’s obsession had been something of a standing joke at Headquarters, well before Javert had ever been stationed there. Rivette had been present on several occasions back in the day, when Javert had insisted to Gisquet that he was close to tracking down this notorious criminal. With just a few more men, with just a little more overtime, with just a few more resources, he would certainly have him.

It would now appear Javert had had his man for some considerable time, maintaining the pretence, possibly for years, that he was still on the hunt, so as not to arouse suspicion, Rivette presumed. 

Even if it was the man’s choice as he had said, even if he were there willingly, even if he was, for whatever reason, consenting to the treatment that Javert was meting out, Rivette was unable to excuse or explain the blatant illegality of his Inspector’s actions.

Leaving aside the violence and the confinement, Javert was harbouring a wanted criminal.

Rivette didn’t know what to do. His duty to the law stood above his duty to Javert in all ways, but he was having great difficulty in reconciling the Javert whom he had worked alongside for years, whom he had admired and respected and feared, was the same Javert who had a wanted man living under his roof.

But… but he had also given his word to his superior officer in the strictest confidence. His superior officer who had never, not once, _ever_ given Rivette pause to question his integrity. He was and had always been unstinting, unyielding and uncompromising; all in pursuit of the law.

Rivette was vacillating hopelessly. He knew he was. One moment he was filled with certainty that Javert was still his unflinching, gimlet-eyed Inspector, the next he was wracked with doubt because, for all the world, it looked like Javert had a criminal chained up in his house.

He sat on the top stair with his head in his hands. He tried to think it through, step by step. If he took it right back to basics, what evidence did he have it was Valjean in that room? None. He had nothing but his own guesswork. This was versus Javert and his years of unswerving service.

Rivette finally made up his mind. He would carry out Javert’s instructions, he would study the situation, he would speak with Valjean and when Javert arrived back, he would have to confront him with what he knew.

The prospect filled him with dread, but he could see no other way forward.


	3. Chapter 3

It was early Friday morning and Rivette was wandering the small garden, waiting for the fishmonger’s boy. He had slept little, enduring long hours of wakefulness. He was restless and unrested, pacing the flowerbeds as the sun rose and the birds began to sing.

A smart rap-rap on the door to the street lifted Rivette’s gaze from his shoes. He opened the door to the lad, who wheeled his cart into the garden.

“Where’s M. Javert?” the lad asked, lifting a package from his barrow.

“He is away. I can take that.”

“Nah, he don’t take the fish. I got to give it to the quiet man, round the back.”

The lad took off down the garden. Rivette followed the boy around to the back of the house, where he saw Valjean was waiting in the doorway to take the delivery. He took the fish inside and then re-emerged. He gave the boy a coin, but the boy then handed it back to him. He was grinning up at Valjean, who smiled gently back. Valjean then checked behind the boy’s right ear and then checked behind his left. Nothing was found and Valjean showed the boy his empty hands. Then he reached behind the boy’s ear again and produced the coin, much to the child’s delight. The boy snatched the coin from Valjean’s fingers and ran off.

“See you next week,” the child yelled over his shoulder.

Valjean’s smile faded and he stepped back into the scullery. 

Rivette let the boy run past him, struck again by the stark difference between Valjean’s fearsome reputation and the reality that Rivette had witnessed over the past few days.

He went into the small kitchen and Valjean looked up at his unexpected arrival.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Rivette said.

Valjean nodded. He began to prepare the fish, scraping it clean until fish-scales covered his fingers like sequins. He picked up a knife and slid it along the fish, opening its belly from head to tail. He pulled out its rosy pink guts and dark red liver and deep red heart. The entrails were dropped into a bucket and the fish rinsed through. Valjean patted the fish dry in a cloth, then set it to one side.

He thinly chopped garlic, sliced a lemon and then selected two large sprigs of dill from the array of herbs on the widow sill. His skill with the knife was apparent and yet Rivette felt no fear. Valjean was focused on his work and he seemed contented in it. He stuffed the garlic, lemon and dill into the fish’s belly. He rubbed olive oil over the skin, his long fingers slick with golden oil. He placed the fish on a baking tray he had lined with a layer of salt. Valjean packed more salt on top, until a thick crust had been formed and the fish was entombed. He laid a damp cloth over the whole construction and put into the pantry.

Valjean then cleaned his knives and hung them up, wiped down the surfaces and tidied his work-space. When he was done, he turned to Rivette.

It was time for him to go back to his room and for Rivette to leave for his day’s work. He found himself reluctantly chaining Valjean to the wall in his room. He left him and took the long, brisk walk to the station. His thoughts were still in a whirl as he moved through the city streets, teeming with people even at this hour.

He could not marry up his vision of the two men who now consumed his thoughts. The contradictions of this last week were too immense for him to fathom. As he approached the station, he did his best to focus on the day ahead. Rivette needed to put on his best front and do his damnedest to emulate his redoubtable Inspector, even though now it would seem his hero had feet of clay.

That evening, Valjean was just about to place the salt-crust trout in front of Rivette when they heard the front door crash open. Both men jumped at the sound.

The dining room door flew open and Javert was standing there with a face like thunder.

“Get to your room,” Javert roared at Valjean.

The man put down the platter and disappeared upstairs.

“Sir,” said Rivette, getting to his feet, shocked at Javert’s arrival and embarrassed to be found indulging. “You’re back early.”

He was indeed and he was in a foul mood.

“The trial’s been postponed.”

“For… for how long, did they say?”

Javert stomped out of the dining room and Rivette followed in his wake.

“Who knows with these _imbeciles_ in the regions?”

Javert had picked up one of the flexible canes from the stand by the front door and was marching up the stairs. Rivette hurried after him, catching his coat as Javert hurled it off his shoulders and stalked into Valjean’s room.

“Shirt off,” Javert ordered.

Valjean pulled his shirt over his head and Rivette found he was still shocked at the state of the man’s back.

With a flick of the cane, Javert indicated the floor. “Down,” he barked.

Valjean got to his knees, his head bowed, his hands braced on his thighs.

Rivette wanted to intervene, but there was something going on between the two of them beyond the obvious, he could feel it thrumming in the air. He found to his shame that he was loath to get in the way of it.

Javert swiped the cane through the air and it struck Valjean’s shoulders with a sickening crack. The man gasped in pain.

“Do you want another one?” Javert asked.

Valjean nodded and Javert brought the cane down on him.

“Another?” said Javert.

Again, the man kneeling at Javert’s feet nodded and again the cane was lashed down onto his back. A cry of pain this time, his body jolting with the force of the blow.

Rivette couldn’t watch this any longer. He stumbled out of the room and found his way down the stairs and into the small entrance hall. He dithered there. He didn’t feel he could leave, but he didn’t know what to do if he stayed.

His meticulous plans, his detailed strategy for tackling Javert about this whole situation had just been blown out of the water. He once again found himself sat on the stairs with his head in his hands. He was staring at the floor whilst the sounds of the beating continued above him.

A short time later, he could hear Javert having sex with the man. Rivette stood up, pressed his hands to his head and took an angst-ridden tour around the ground floor. The study seemed to offer the best protection from the sounds emanating from upstairs and he sank into the armchair. He stared numbly at the unlit fireplace, dreading what he was going to have to do. The consequences were unknowable and he was sick with worry.

After a time, he heard them both come down the stairs. Shortly, the door to the study opened and Javert walked in.

Rivette stood, his stomach churning.

“Sir… I have to tell you… I must… You have a wanted felon under your roof, sir.”

“Do I?” He was breathing a little heavily, but his demeanour had improved markedly.

Rivette nodded, with all the conviction he could muster. “The man in that room is Jean Valjean.”

Javert was looking at him calmly. “Did he tell you that?”

“No… I…”

“Has he been speaking?” Javert asked, more firmly this time.

Rivette didn’t want to lie to Javert, but even if he were a convict, he didn’t want to earn Valjean another beating.

“Only… only because I ordered him to.” Rivette winced internally.

“Ordered him, did you?” Javert mused. Then he smiled, thinly. “We’ll make an Inspector out of you yet.”

Rivette was amazed both at the comment and that Javert did not seem to be angry with him. Or apparently with Valjean; having taken out his frustrations on him, Javert had calmed down considerably. That he had also taken Rivette’s astonishing accusation with such equanimity was, however, unsettling.

“Sit,” said Javert.

“Sir… I–”

“Sit down, man.”

Rivette sat back down in the armchair.

“The man in the room is not Jean Valjean,” said Javert.

“Is he… is he not?” asked Rivette, confusion mixing with a shock of hope that caught him square in the chest.

“He is not. He is a wealthy businessman.” Javert sat down on the sofa. “We met some years ago whilst I was stationed in his town. We… recognised something in each other, you might say. He bore a resemblance and… for my own needs, I require him to act as Valjean. He may have felt he should maintain that fiction for you.”

Rivette was staring and he could feel his mouth was hanging open a little. When no words emerged, Javert continued.

“It is not something I am proud of, Rivette, but there it is. I fulfil his needs and he fulfils mine.”

Javert went on to explain who he was, where he was from and that the man’s business, now in the hands of trustees, paid a stipend into Javert’s account each month. It explained everything, the nice house, the good food, the deeply weird situation… There was more than enough detail that Rivette could easily check out Javert’s version of events, should he choose to do so. He felt almost faint with relief.

“Oh, sir,” he sighed. “You have no idea.”

“I have some, Rivette, given the state of you.”

“Forgive me, for…”

Javert held up his hand. “I should have thought the same, given the situation.”

“I… I didn’t know what to think.”

Javert nodded. “Will you stay for dinner?”

“Sorry, sir?”

“He was serving dinner. Do you want to stay and eat it?”

A knock at the door meant the food was ready.

Whilst they had been talking, Valjean had prepared a second place at the table. As the salt-crust trout had gone cold, Valjean had re-purposed the meal as fish stew. Valjean looked drawn as he was serving the food and pouring the wine.

“Is he alright to be…?” Rivette trailed off because Javert was looking at him as if he had begun to speak in tongues.

“What are you blabbering about?”

“Nothing,” said Rivette. “Nothing.”

The stew was delicious and Rivette hoped that Valjean had done as he had said and made enough for his own meal. With Javert’s unexpected arrival, it was quite possible that Valjean would not dare to take such a liberty. That prospect made Rivette feel guilty all over again that he was enjoying the man’s wonderful food when he may not.

“I see you haven’t yet cut his hair,” Javert said.

“I’m sorry, sir. I had planned to this Saturday evening.”

Javert made a sound. Usually, Rivette could read Javert and his shifting moods and tones quite easily, but he didn’t know what to make of that non-committal noise. Was the harrumph one of approval or of disbelief? He had no idea.

“I suppose that will have to suffice.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“He will be ready for another shave by then. I should like you to keep on top of his grooming.”

Rivette was taken aback by the implication. “Yes, sir, of course. I would be happy to do so.”

When they had finished eating, Valjean cleared the table and then he stood in his corner, awaiting further orders.

“Rivette,” said Javert, “join us in my room in, say, ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rivette, watching as they left the room together, his heartbeat thudding in his chest.

Ten minutes passed like ten hours. He had checked the mantel clock a ridiculous number of times. The hands were crawling by. It was interminable. It was like being on surveillance, where time seemed to have ceased to pass in the normal fashion. He drew a hand down his face. He had no idea what to expect or what might be expected from him. It was a thrilling and a frightening prospect.

Finally, _finally_ , ten minutes had elapsed. Rivette stood, straightened himself and took the short but significant journey into his Inspector’s bedroom.

When Rivette entered, it was nothing like he had been expecting. Javert’s bedroom was dark and opulent, all red velvet and mahogany wood. It was dominated by a large four-poster bed and Valjean lay naked on it. A wide leather belt was buckled in place, gagging his mouth. His collar shone in the low light and even unaroused, he was an impressive sight. Rivette had felt his size and weight the night before and now having seen him, Rivette was certain that he wanted Valjean inside him.

He shivered, despite the heat on his skin and he sat in the small, plush armchair that Javert had indicated to him.

Javert was dressed only in a robe and it was a match for the room, reds of various hues merged in a delicate pattern and the whole garment was edged in what appeared to be gold thread. He had something like a purse made of tough leather in his hand. It had long leather thongs attached and it had a criss-cross of loosened laces running up through its centre. Though larger, it was reminiscent of the hoods used on birds of prey and Javert was soon leaning over Valjean with it. He slipped the leather pouch over the entirety of Valjean’s manhood. It was clear that it was far too small to fit comfortably. The drawstrings around the top were pulled tight, closing around the base of his balls and the root of his shaft. Valjean shifted in discomfort as Javert secured it.

Now Valjean was enclosed in the leather pouch, Javert began to tighten the lacing, further constricting and constraining him. Valjean’s head was tilted back, a grimace on his face as Javert cinched the laces ever tighter. Rivette could see the delicate skin of Valjean’s penis bulging beneath the laces. He was far too large for the edges of the purse to close together. Javert tied off the lacing, leaving just the four long leather thongs attached to the pouch. Valjean shifted his body and Javert took the top two thongs and tied them around his hips. The lower two were passed between his legs. Each was then drawn to the left or right, skimming under the line of his buttocks. They were then attached to leather strip that was tied around his waist. Thus, the pouch was secured in place. Rivette could only imagine the immense discomfort he was in and the pain that would be caused if Valjean should become aroused. Clearly, this was one of the ‘different ways’ in which Javert denied him pleasure. At the very prospect, a flush of heat and a flash of cold chased across Rivette’s flesh.

Javert slipped off his robe and Rivette had to stop himself from audibly gasping. Javert shone like bronze. He was an exquisite contrast to Valjean’s milk white, sun-starved skin. Javert’s strong lines were outlined clearly in the oblique light of the oil lamp and his dark body had a sheen like that of the finest satin. Rivette wanted to run his hands all over him. Javert was lithe and lean and he was flawless. Again, the contrast with Valjean’s broad, muscular body, marred with the scars of countless beatings, took Rivette’s breath away. They looked magnificent together.

Javert took up a small jug. He poured a little of the contents onto his fingers until they were golden with oil. Valjean was kneeling on the bed now, his arms locked. His hands screwed up fistfuls of the cover as Javert, standing next to him, pushed two fingers into him. Valjean gasped around the gag and Rivette could imagine the slick of the oil, the stretch of the strong fingers and the ache of the invasion. His own hole began to throb in vicarious anticipation. Javert returned to the jug and slicked his building erection with more oil. As he made himself harder, Rivette was transfixed as Javert grew before his eyes. He wanted to take Javert in his hand and in his mouth. He wanted to close his fingers, he wanted to close his _mouth_ around that thick, hard cock, he wanted to feel him and touch him and taste him and pleasure him.

Rivette watched, rapt, as Javert slid deep inside Valjean, his hips rolling into him and he began, smooth and regular, slow and deliberate. Valjean’s back arched with every stroke, the muscles of his shoulders bunched like those of a big cat. A breathy gasp of pleasure merged into a low roar of pain as he bit down on the gag as Javert was clearly and purposefully grinding into Valjean’s sweet spot, long and slow and deep. Rivette could see Valjean’s cock was straining inside the lacing, Javert’s every stroke forcing his body into a helpless reaction against itself. Watching Javert’s strong, lithe body moving and shifting with such control and precision was making Rivette sweat. He shuddered; he was achingly hard and aching to touch himself. He resolved not to, in some sort of solidarity with Valjean and his agonising inability to come.

Javert was moving faster now, stabbing in short, sharp thrusts, his hands locked onto Valjean’s hips, his long fingers digging into his flesh. Valjean’s head was down, his eyes were closed and there was pain etched across his face. With each violent thrust, the padlock on his collar rocked, the polished silver glinting in the lamplight.

Valjean’s every breath was now a gasp of pain, every one of Javert’s was a grunt of pleasurable effort.

A single bead of sweat ran down the centre of Javert’s chest, escaping the dark curls of hair where others glistened. It ran between his ribs, down his belly and then disappeared from Rivette’s view. He urgently wanted to put his mouth on that line, to trace its path with his tongue, to go deeper than he had been able to see.

Javert’s rhythmic control had slipped and it was clear he had begun to climax. He was bucking hard, slamming into Valjean as he came, panting and gasping as the building pressure burst in an ecstasy of pleasure. He slowed and he slowed and, breathing hard, he withdrew from the shuddering body of Valjean. Javert collected his robe and slipped it on, but did not wrap it around himself. Valjean lay on the bed, his eyes still closed, his face still a picture of distress. There was no way he could have had any release, the tough leather pouch had seen to that.

Javert had gone to stand by the washbasin.

“Clean me,” he ordered and Rivette almost stood to attend to his Inspector.

Of course it was Valjean he wanted and the man obediently got off the bed, still gagged and with his hair hanging in his face, his manhood was straining inside the grip of its leather prison. He picked up the jug, poured some water into the basin and dipped a soft cloth into the water. Valjean, kneeling up in front of Javert, wiped the cloth firstly over Javert’s sweat-sparkled chest. Rivette’s erection had faded, but this was bringing it back to attention. Valjean was so delicate, so attentive, and as he stroked the cloth over Javert’s wilted penis, Rivette desperately wanted that strong, gentle attention on his own erection.

When he had finished, Valjean knelt down and lowered his head. This earned him a caress from Javert that seemed to work through the man like a bolt of lighting.

Javert did up his robe and turned to Rivette.

“Twice in one night,” Javert said, with some satisfaction. “I am spent.”

All Rivette could do was nod in reply.

“There are some papers I need to attend to. It should take no more than two hours. You may have your use of him for that time and the use of my room, should you wish it.”

Rivette swallowed and again he just nodded his reply. Javert smiled, noting the bulge at Rivette’s crotch. Javert patted it and then reached up and kissed Rivette. It was little more than a brush of lips, but he was so aroused, Rivette saw stars.

“We will have a night together soon, Rivette,” said Javert.

“Th…thank you, sir,” he managed to say.

“I shall be up a little after ten. Have him back in his room by then.”

“Yes, sir, I shall.”

Javert left and Rivette stood in the middle of the room, his aching erection looming as large in his thoughts as it did in his breeches.

Valjean was still on his knees, awaiting instruction. Rivette’s own ache certainly paled and was as nothing when compared to Valjean’s distress.

“Let’s get these off you,” he said, unbuckling the gag and peeling it from Valjean's mouth. It had left deep marks on the edges of his lips and Rivette found that he wanted to kiss those bruises very much. He set the gag to one side. “Stand up.”

Valjean stood, his face tense with the pain he was trying to suppress. Rivette undid the thongs and then released the drawstring that was pulled tight around the base of him. The moment his fingers touched the pouch, Valjean gasped in pain and his hand gripped the edge of the washstand.

“I’m sorry, I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

Valjean nodded and Rivette tugged on the knot that held the cruel lattice-work in place. It came loose, but easing the laces apart was a delicate and difficult process, given they had dug into the skin of Valjean’s penis. He was frequently gasping in pain, causing Rivette to have to stop for long moments. When Rivette had finally worked him free, Valjean’s cry of relief was almost a sob. The pouch had left him heavily bruised, a purplish cast shaded his balls and the vicious laces had left an impression of reddened crosses down the length of his penis.

Valjean was leaning on the washstand, his head down, his breathing still ragged, tension in every muscle of his body. Everything about his demeanour spoke as to the pain he must be in.

“You may clean yourself, when you feel able,” Rivette said, his erection long since faded, as once confronted with the desperate reality of Valjean’s damage, it had withered in empathy. Rivette sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for Valjean. 

Valjean didn’t make any immediate movement, but eventually, he washed the oil and Javert’s spend from himself and waited to be told what to do.

“Lie on the bed,” Rivette said. “Get as comfortable as you can.”

Valjean nodded and lay down on his back. Rivette went to the linen cupboard and found a clean cloth. Taking it back into Javert’s room, he soaked it in fresh water from the jug. He took it over to Valjean and laid it gently over his groin. The man gasped, but this time it was with relief, not pain. The cool, soothing water and the soft, gentle cloth would help to take some of the pain and hopefully some of the swelling away.

Rivette lay down next to him, his head tilted so that it rested against Valjean’s shoulder.

“I think it will be alright,” he said, his eyes closed.

He felt Valjean shift, as if he had turned his head to look at him.

“I think it will be,” Rivette said again, feeling the need to reassure the man who was lying next to him.

After a moment, he felt Valjean relax against him and that felt good.

Rivette was sure it would be alright. He felt certain. It was most odd, after everything that had happened, but it was true.

He felt very clearly that everything was going to be alright.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Oubliette](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21572077) by [AliceBee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceBee/pseuds/AliceBee)




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